


I'll Make the Rules (For You to Break)

by howdoyouwhisk (popsongdelusional)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Edgeplay, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, Love Bites, M/M, Marking, Pining, Up All Night Tour, Whispering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsongdelusional/pseuds/howdoyouwhisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are games Harry and Louis sometimes play with one another. This time, Harry proposes a bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Make the Rules (For You to Break)

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Cursing; recreational alcohol and marijuana consumption

“D’you wanna shove a cat up your arse?” shouts the bloke chatting Harry up.

Harry blinks slowly, eying his hopeful face. His bushy brows are high on his forehead, his head cocked to the side. And he’s wearing a fedora but, well, people have worn worse things. Besides, Harry might quite like to wear a fedora himself someday, probably wouldn’t do to take the piss out of someone else for it.

“I really don’t think that’s ethical,” he says instead, straining to catch the sound of his own voice over the music. Come to think of it, he probably misheard fedoraed bloke. He shrugs anyway. “I like cats.”

The bushy brows furrow, and fedoraed bloke shuffles in. “What?” he asks, tipping an ear Harry’s way.

“I said I like cats!” says Harry. A girl in platforms—friend of Niall’s, he thinks—stumbles into him, pushing the two of them even closer. “What did _you_ say?”

“I said, ‘D’you wanna get coffee sometime’?” And, well, that does make more sense.

“Oh, right! Well, I—” he begins, only to be interrupted by Louis popping up by his side.

He grins, slotting into Louis’ side instinctively. Louis passes him one of the shot glasses they’d picked up especially for their first proper party. Harry takes it gratefully. “Thanks, Lou!”

Louis leans in close enough his lips brush the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry sways a bit as he holds the shot glass before himself, steadying himself by a hand on Louis’ shoulder. Louis’ arm snakes ‘round his waist. “Haz, you’re needed in the kitchen, I’m afraid,” he says into Harry’s ear. The vibration of it tickles, and Harry shifts, trying not to squirm.

“Oh, all right,” he says. “Let me just—” He downs the shot. Louis snickers when he makes a face.

“Sorry, sorry, back in a mo,” he tells the fedoraed bloke, who’s frowning at Louis, then Harry, in turns. And maybe it’s rude of Harry, but this _is_ his party—at least half his party, anyway—so he _should_ play host.

It’s quite a shame, though. He was so close to pulling.

Louis nicks the shot glass and steps back from Harry’s side. “Yeah, mate, sorry,” he says, grabbing Harry by the wrist. His fingers are warm on Harry’s skin. Fedoraed bloke shrugs.

“That’s all ri—”

“Great, thanks, bye!” Louis says, and tugs Harry away.

It becomes quickly apparent that they are not, in fact, going anywhere near the kitchen, unless it has suddenly been relocated to Louis’ bedroom. Harry grins. “Louis Tomlinson,” he gasps, “did you _lie_ to me?”

Louis arches a brow as he swings the door shut with one hip. The music muffles to an acceptable background level. He deposits the shot glass atop his wardrobe and crosses his arms. “Thought I’d save you from the twat in the fedora. Charitable, I am.”

Harry laughs, flopping down on Louis’ bed and spreading his legs. “What if I didn’t want to be saved from the twat in the fedora?”

“That’s fair,” says Louis impassively, raising a shoulder. “In fact, go right back out there and fuck his brains out, Haz. C’mere a bit, though, lemme fix you up. You’ll want to look like a proper lady for this.”

“Right,” Harry laughs, standing back up. He’s not quite steady, suddenly feeling the alcohol more than he had on the walk over. He idles over to Louis, arms spread, expecting Louis to fix his fringe. He does _not_ expect to be spun on his heel and pushed against the door.

“Oof,” he says, and, “Wha—” but Louis just grins, cups his chin, angles his head backward, and attaches his mouth squarely to the line of Harry’s jaw.

Harry goes tense and still, mouth falling open. It’s certainly unexpected, Lou’s not much for fooling around when he’s been drinking, but it’s not like he has any protests. Louis’s mouth is hot and slick on his skin, and the pressure of it aches even before Louis nips the mark he’s surely made. Harry spreads his legs, hands settling low on Louis’ hips.

“Oh, okay, you want to…” he murmurs, hardly about to pass up the opportunity to give Louis’ arse a nice grope. But Louis detaches himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nah, s’all right, just couldn’t resist myself.” He grins a shit-eating grin. Harry frowns, suddenly both uncomfortably turned on _and_ suspicious.

Louis reaches for the doorknob. “What are you doing?” Harry asks, confused.

“Seeing how fast I can spot a fedora in a crowd,” says Louis with a wink, displacing Harry as he pulls open the door, and then the music hits them and all Harry can do is trail after him.

“But I—” he shouts, trying to adjust himself discreetly, and it’s no use at all. Louis’ got a fist in Harry’s button-down and is tugging him along with no small amount of purpose and zero regard for whomever Harry might accidentally plow down in the process.

It’s not long before he grinds to a halt, sidestepping to avoid Harry tripping over him. Harry looks up and over, going red when he sees fedoraed bloke’s startled face. “There you are,” Louis says with a pat to Harry’s shoulder, and then he promptly and unceremoniously fucks off.

The bloke stares at Harry. Specifically, the bloke stares at the spot on Harry’s jaw where, not two minutes prior, Louis’ lips had been firmly planted. Harry blinks back at him, willing himself not to turn red.

“Um,” he says. “Hi?”

“Er, hi again,” says the bloke. He takes a sip of his beer, shifts his weight, then fishes his mobile from his pocket. He starts fiddling with it.

Harry tries not to wince. After a moment, the bloke holds up his mobile as if to show Harry, before shoving it back into his pocket. “Oh, sorry, I have to—” But whatever it is he has to do is an incomprehensible mumble under the music, and Harry’s left staring at his back as he’s swallowed up by the crowd, wondering how he’s managed not to pull essentially three times in one night.

“Right,” he mutters to himself, and decides if he can’t pull tonight, he’s going to get sloshed like never before.

He toddles to the kitchen, flipping Louis off when he spots him grinning over from the couch. “Wanker,” he says under his breath, already plotting his revenge, and snatches the first bottle he sees.

He wakes up with a crick in his neck clutching a bottle of champagne.

The crick in his neck makes sense, given that he’s folded himself impossibly into the tub in the back toilet. And that, in turn, is unsurprising once he sees that his bottle of champagne is now tragically empty. He manages to heft the bottle out of the tub and onto the bathmat without untangling his legs from beneath him. “Christ,” he mutters, wondering at the possibility of someone having come in and folded him up like an origami crane whilst he slept. He hopes not, as he’s just in his pants. The rest of his clothes are nowhere to be found.

It takes several minutes of determined self-motivational thinking before he finally heaves himself upright and out of the tub. It’s an unpleasant toddle over to the basin after that. Hangovers make him queasy, seasick on dry land, not to mention that he aches all over. He rubs at his side, sighing.

After a good stretch, he grips the lip of the basin and meets his own eyes in the mirror above the sink. He’s got a red splotch on his cheek from the lip of the tub, and one side of what aren’t quite curls any longer has gone much flatter than the other. Louis’ love bite sits starkly and obscenely on his skin, and his mouth tastes like garlic from supper and a veritable liquor store courtesy of the rest of the evening. It’s a stomach-turning combination given the circumstances, so he reaches for his toothbrush, only to find it floating handle-up in the toilet.

“Heathens,” he says, appalled. He’ll be paying much closer mind to the guest list next party, never you mind. After shaking his hair out and splashing his face with water, he shrugs and nicks Louis’ toothbrush. They’ve swapped spit loads of times, after all. Well, practically.

It is immediately evident to Harry upon unlocking the door and stepping into the corridor that their flat is an unsalvageable apocalyptic wasteland and that no one has stayed ‘round to help clean save for Niall, who is asleep face-down on the glass coffee table. His mouth is open, slick with drool. Harry shuffles up and nudges him with one knee.

Niall’s shoulders twitch. He’s shirtless. Harry’s thankful he missed that portion of the evening because he’s certain if he hadn’t, his nudes would be on the internet by now. Again. “Whaddya want,” Niall mumbles indistinctly. When Harry nudges him again, he lifts his head and cracks an eye.

“Help me tidy up, Niall,” Harry says.

“Fuck’s sake, mate,” says Niall. He groans, grunts, and drops his head back against the glass. His cheek squelches in his puddle of drool.

Harry’s gag reflex kicks in. He knees Niall less gently this time round, in the shoulder now. “Help me tidy up or get out, Niall.”

Watching Niall remove himself from the table is like watching a convict slowly and painstakingly scrape roadkill from the motorway. He peels free one limb at a time, the bare skin of his chest and arms popping audibly from the glass. Once he’s up, he rubs at an eye with his knuckle and looks despondently at Harry.

“What’s this all about? I’m tryna sleep, ya great cunt. Where’re your clothes, anyways?”

“My home is a war zone,” Harry says. He toes at an aluminium beer can on the carpet. It rolls, leaving a trail of beer in its wake as reverberates against the hardwood floors. It’s oddly solemn. Harry decides he likes it and kicks at it again. Might as well make the most of the graveyard of teenage stupidity their flat has become.

The gravity of the situation appears to dawn on Niall as he watches. He looks ‘round slowly, taking in the empty bottles and stray solo cups, the deep red stain on the carpet by the couch and its electric blue mate over by the telly.

“Is that your sick in the kitchen?” Harry asks, pointing.

Niall’s head swivels obediently. He swallows, looking green about the gills. “You said I could go home, Haz?” he asks, clearly nervous Harry has changed his mind.

But Harry is feeling magnanimous. He’ll let Niall flee before Louis gets him in his clutches. “Go, be free,” he says, and Niall jumps up at once, wincing.

“Cheers, mate.”

He shoves on a pair of shoes Harry isn’t certain are his own, pats his bum to check for his keys, and is out the door without another word. Also, even more unusually, without a shirt.

Harry sighs, bites his knuckle, and decides it’s time to fetch Louis.

Louis, or the heap of blankets that must be Louis, flails indignantly the moment his door opens. “Oi, who the bloody fuck—” he says, his head popping out. His hair is standing on end, a byproduct of ironing it straight the way Louis does, and with his eyes narrowed he reminds Harry of a bristling alleycat. But he relaxes when he sees it’s only Harry, propping himself on an elbow and unknotting his bedding with his free hand.

Harry pulls the door closed behind himself and saunters up to the bed. “Everyone’s gone home,” he says, perching on the edge of the mattress parallel to Louis’ shoulder. Covers righted, Louis flops back onto his pillow and peers up at Harry through slitted eyes.

“I know, I sent them all off but Niall because he was too pissed to move. Tell me he didn’t wander out and leave the door unlocked behind himself, Styles.”

Harry shakes his head. “He was glued to the coffee table, though, so he must’ve got loose at some moment.”

“No, that’s how I left him,” says Louis, with no small amount of cheer. Harry sniggers into his lap.

Louis sits again, his blankets pooling atop his thighs. He’s wearing a Stones t-shirt and, Harry sees as Louis goes up on his knees, a pair of black joggers. He steadies himself on Harry’s shoulder and leans past him to the nightstand on the opposite end, his arm brushing Harry’s bare chest. He grabs his glasses and sits back, crosses his legs, and angles himself toward the other nightstand.

“Wake and bake?” he suggests, or perhaps just announces.

Harry makes a face. “Dunno how you end up with your glasses on one side and your illicit drugs on the other, Lou,” he says, toying with one of the thicker blankets, rubbing the layers of fabric against one another. He hears Louis scoff.

“One of these days I’ll take you seriously and decide you’re a right twat.”

He watches Louis’ deft fingers as he packs the weed into a small blue grinder. “What’s the state of the flat, then?” Louis asks, his arm working.

Harry situates himself on the bed properly now, scooting to the other side and stretching his sore legs outward. He wiggles his toes, wondering for the first time where his shoes got off to. “There’s a pile of sick in the kitchen,” he informs Louis after a moment, grinning over at him.

Louis pulls a face, tapping the plastic with the heel of his palm. “Who should we destroy for that?”

“Dunno.” He shakes out his fringe. “S’not like they left a calling card.”

“Was probably that bloke you were trying to pull, he looked the type. We should get a cleaning service,” Louis says, and it’s hopeful enough that Harry doesn’t laugh at him outright.

“Rent’s up in a week, by the way,” he says instead, as gently as he can. It’s not like he wants to clean up sick either, but someone has to be practical. Louis throws him a two-finger salute without looking up, which is when he notices that Louis is rummaging around, feeling beneath the pillows. “What are you looking for?”

Louis gets up on his knees again and peers over the bed. “My fags, d’you see them?” he asks distractedly as he pulls up the covers.

Harry does see them, in fact: the pack is perched on the desk in the corner. Now that he’s looking, he notices that Louis’ keys are on the carpet as well, a pair of red trousers and a beanie at the foot of the bed. It’s easy for Harry to imagine Louis stumbling in drunk, stripping off. It’s likely enough he doesn’t remember how he got there at all, let alone moments before he fell asleep.

“Nope,” he says anyway, just because he can.

Louis straightens, head snapping toward Harry. He eyes him suspiciously, then scans the room. When he spots the cigarettes, he cocks an eyebrow. “Still not to be trusted, I see,” he says, hopping up to fetch them.

Harry’s gaze sweeps down the curve of his back, down the backs of his legs to his bare feet. He’s back in bed before Harry can blink, pulling a cigarette from the pack. Louis rolls the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, tobacco sprinkling down atop the weed on the nightstand. As Harry watches him, he kneads at his own calf muscle, gritting his teeth when the muscle spasms. It’s hard to pay Louis any mind when he’s so uncomfortable, but he tries regardless, because Louis’s got quick fingers and a quicker tongue, and he can be still when he has to be.

Before Harry knows it, Louis is bouncing the spliff against the nightstand, pinching it off at the top and giving it a shake. “I’m telling you, Haz, it was probably Liam. One kidney my arse.”

“Maybe you should clean it up, see if they left a signature,” he suggests with a shrug.

“Cheeky,” Louis says, and lights the spliff when Harry grins at him. The air is thick with smoke before long, and it stings Harry’s eyes but he doesn’t really mind too much. It’s worth it to watch the curl of the smoke billowing outward from Louis’ lips whenever he takes a puff. Harry takes the spliff when it’s offered, but he only takes a drag before he passes it back. He doesn’t know how Louis and Zayn do it, but he’d rather not be high off his arse before morning tea.

His fingers skim Louis’ when he hands it over. He tries not to let his shiver show. Louis doesn’t seem to notice, just takes another drag. “I’ve never smoked weed from a hookah,” he says after a beat.

Harry laughs without meaning to. “That’s so tragic for you, Lou,” he replies, smiling crookedly. Louis frowns and leans towards the ashtray. But it’s a feint, apparently, because out of nowhere he’s tickling at Harry’s side with his left hand. Harry squirms and tosses his head.

He’s still laughing, clutching at his side and rolling away from Louis, hoping like hell he won’t end up burnt. “No, I could like, I could cry for you, Louis, I swear I could,” he gasps out, a risk now that he’s reached the edge of the bed and has no further room for escape. Still frowning, Louis does abandon the spliff now. He drops it into the ashtray and puts his hand flat on Harry, pins him and straddles his hips.

Harry’s breathing calms slowly. He’s still and so is Louis, looking down at him like he has something to say. Harry’s head spins with the possibilities.

“I bet I could make you cry,” is what Louis says, in the end. It was a possibility Harry had not considered.

Harry finds himself short of breath again already. He’s interested, of course, in the cocky shine to Louis’ gaze. He’s interested, even though he woke up feeling like death and every one of his muscles aches. He’s always interested. “Bet I could make _you_ cry,” he says instead.

Louis snorts. “Oooh, Harold’s gone wild. What are you betting, then?”

Harry deliberates. “Loser cleans up the sick,” he proposes. Louis seems sceptical of those stakes at once.

“You hitting me in the bollocks till I cry isn’t something I’m willing to clean up sick for, mate.”

Harry squints up at him, trying to convey the ridiculousness of that thought without speech. Like he’d ever really hurt Louis. Louis rolls his eyes after a moment. “Fine,” he says. “Do your worst.”

“I’ll do my _best_ ,” Harry corrects, going up on his elbows. Louis’ bum falls back against his thighs, and Harry wiggles his legs to shift him. “Lie back.”

Louis hoists himself off Harry and falls back against the pillows grandly. He spreads his arms wide. “Go on, then, ravish me,” he says, as Harry shuffles up on hands and knees and straddles him. He can feel Louis’ hard-on. Harry sneaks a hand across his belly surreptitiously, palming himself through his front of his pants. His hips twitch upward minutely.

Louis huffs, then tsks, smacking gently at Harry’s fingers. “D’you wanna win your own bloody bet or d’you want to play with yourself, Hazza?”

Louis’ fringe is an even more ridiculous mess by now, his hair feathering out wildly. He’s got dried drool on his chin and his fingers tucked in the waistband of Harry’s briefs, resting warm against his hipbone. Harry’s never wanted so much for someone to kiss him until he can’t breathe.

“I want to play with myself, Louis,” he says anyway, a grin stretching wide and slow over his lips. Because Louis doesn’t need to know any of that, because that’s one of those things they don’t acknowledge. It’s easier this way, more fun. He walks his fingers over his hip, brushes them softly over the shaft of his prick, and sighs.

Louis shuts his eyes and cups his ear. “What’s that? You want to clean up sick? Oh, you’re such a good flatmate, Haz.”

“I know,” says Harry cheekily. He ducks down to give Louis a slow kiss right at his collarbone above the loose neckline of his t-shirt, if only to tide himself over. He runs his hands down Louis’ chest and slips his fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.

Louis shuts his eyes, exhaling. “Am I meant to be crying over this, mate?” he asks. “Have to tell you, feels pretty nice to me so far.”

Harry smirks, but doesn’t reply. He slides down between Louis’ legs on the bed, giving the front of his joggers a nice grope on the way. Then he settles on his stomach, unsurprised to feel Louis’ legs press tight against his shoulders. He hooks his fingers into Louis’ joggers and tugs them down over his thighs, shifting atop them.

Louis’ fairly hard already. He’s got such a nice cock, Harry thinks, not that he’s had _too_ much to compare it with. Still, from his limited perspective it’s quite lovely. “Hiiii,” he says to it, ignoring Louis’ cackle.

“You’re a queer one, aren’t you, Hazza.”

“Just polite,” Harry says. He shift his weight onto his left elbow and drapes his right arm over Louis’ hip, ghosts his fingers over the shaft of Louis’ dick. “Getting reacquainted.”

The first time he’d ever jerked Louis’ off had been the first time he’d ever jerked _anyone_ off save himself, and he’d be lying to say he hadn’t been intimidated. By now, he knows exactly what Louis’ likes.

Louis likes it to start off nice and slow, but firm. Good, long strokes. Harry loves watching his own hand on Louis’ dick, the way it swallows it up, the way his dick hardens even more when Harry twists his wrist. “Oh,” Louis says, just a bit breathily. He’s got his head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut. “Good, good, reacquaint all you like.”

“Mmm,” Harry agrees, looking up beneath his lashes at Louis and thumbing the head of his dick just to hear him moan. Louis shudders, his adam’s apple bobbing.

He pumps faster once Louis’ hips begin to jerk up of his own accord, thighs pressing over Harry’s ears as he squirms. Harry dips in, breathes against the shaft of Louis’ dick just long enough to catch Louis’ eyes come open, and then gets a hand ‘round him again and swallows him down.

Louis is no good at all at controlling himself whilst he’s being blown. Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. He keep his teeth out of the way and lets Louis thrust his hips, the tip of Louis’ dick gliding over the inside of his cheek a few times. Louis is gasping and cursing, though Harry can’t make out exactly what he’s saying with his thighs in the way of Harry’s ears, and Harry lets him go at it until it seems like he’ll come any moment if only Harry lets him keep fucking his mouth.

And then Harry pulls off.

Louis’ eyes fly open. “What are you— _Harry_ ,” he says, lifting his head to look at him questioningly.

Harry hums. He gets his other arm up, both hands on Louis’ stomach now, and presses a kiss to his inner thigh. Louis grunts, seemingly in acceptance. Harry sucks a love bite overtop his kiss, keeps it sealed there for as long as it’ll take for the bruise to fade from Louis’ skin.

He waits till it seems that Louis has come back from the brink, occupying himself by sucking another mark below the first, thumbing over Louis’ bollocks with his left hand. Then he gets back to work, one hand on the base of Louis’ dick as he gets his mouth back around him, lips stretched wide. Louis bucks, sliding deeper. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles when Harry gags a bit ‘round him, but Harry shrugs.

He wasn’t sure about deepthroating before he’d tried it: it’s awfully intimidating as a concept. But he loves the challenge, and he loves how wild Louis gets when he succeeds. He loves how close his lips come to the base of Louis’ cock. He loves the smell of him.

He loves Louis, really, not just this but all of him.

But that’s neither here nor there.

He thinks he lets it go on a touch too long. Louis’s moaning long and low, and Harry’s glad Niall has already pissed off because he’d be traumatised surely. Harry pulls off, wiping his mouth and grinning when Louis glares at him and demands, “What are you _doing_ , you fucking wanker?”

“Winning, don’t you think,” says Harry. Louis’ eyes narrow. “Will you take your shirt off, please?”

“So you can torture me more?” he asks.

Harry sits up, shrugging one shoulder. “Well, if you want to forfeit, Lou…”

“Not a chance,” Louis says at once, kicking off his joggers as he hauls himself into a sitting position. He yanks his shirt over his head and looks at Harry challengingly. His dick is obscenely hard against his stomach.

He wonders how many love bites Louis will let him sear into his skin before it’s too many. He counts them: another to his collarbone, two on his neck, one just below his ear… Louis’s mumbling nonsense, can’t do anything but hiss when Harry gets a hand on him again. He doesn’t even try to keep still as Harry jerks him off this time.

Harry feels almost mean when he stops, not even quite sure he cares about winning as much as proving his point, whatever that may be. And it seems as though he has, because this time when he pulls back Louis shakes his head wildly.

“Okay, I forfeit, I forfeit,” he says, his fingers bunched tight in the linens. He isn’t crying, but he’s so, so red, his chest heaving and eyes wild. “I’ll clean up the sick, can you just… ”

“Hm, I dunno,” says Harry in mock consideration. He wonders if he’d undermine himself should he shove a hand down his pants and start jacking himself off. Yes, he decides, probably.  “You weren’t very nice to me last night, you know. And I already won, didn’t I.”

“Last night, what are you—” Louis’ eyes widen. “Are you talking about the twat in the fedora? I did you a favour! He probably listens to jazz ironically and thinks boybanders have sold their souls to consumerism, Haz.”

“You do me a lot of favours,” says Harry. “Whenever I try to pull it’s like, look, here’s Louis again with one of his _favours_. Dunno how grateful I am, Lou.”

Louis’ lips tug downward. He ducks his head, staring fixedly at the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s got a hand ‘round his dick now, and that’s definitely against the rules but Harry isn’t about to interrupt an actual _apology_ to say so. “Look, I’m really sorry, all right? I was just jealous, Haz, I won’t do it again.”

“Jealous,” Harry repeats. His heart is in his throat; it’s not as nice as Louis’ cock. He hates getting his hopes up. “Jealous of what?”

Louis throws his head back and turns his cheek against the pillow, swallowing. “Oh, don’t be a cunt, Harry. It’s not cute.”

“Jealous of me?” Harry asks. He has to be sure. “Jealous of him?”

Louis stares at him, so affronted Harry can practically see his feathers ruffling. “Obviously of him, obviously _because of you_. Like I’d touch that wanker with a ten-foot pole. Harry.” He swallows. “You have to know how, I…. that I… you do know, don’t you?”

Harry isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, wonders if Louis would argue he’d lost the bet even after a forfeit should he. “You shouldn’t call the fedoraed bloke names, he seemed perfectly nice,” he says diplomatically. Then he crawls up, drapes himself across Louis’ chest, and swallows Louis’ protest with a kiss.

There’s a long moment where Louis’ mouth is slack beneath his. Then his hands come up and he tilts his head, arms wrapping ‘round Harry’s waist. He moans into the kiss, his tongue slipping between Harry’s lips. When Harry pulls back, Louis nips at his lower lip, following him up before his eyes flutter open and he lets his head fall back.

“Harry?” he asks, his brows drawn.

“Dunno if I’m as smart as you thought I was, Lou,” he says, biting his lip. It’s sore from Louis’ teeth, and he likes it that way. Wishes it could always be, just as a reminder.

A slow, pleased smile spreads across Louis’ face. Harry’s never seen him look quite so chuffed, and he loves that he’s the reason more than anything. “That’s all right. That’s perfectly fine with me, really.”

“Hm, I dunno,” says Harry. He shifts his leg, gets a thigh against Louis’ cock. “Maybe I could, like. Make it up to you somehow?”

“Yeah?” Louis’ smile turns wicked, slow and dirty. “D’you have something in mind?”

“Whatever you’d like, Lou,” Harry says, and he means it. He trusts him, and the way Louis’ gaze softens at his words tells him once and for all his trust his not misplaced.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Yeah, just.” And he keeps a hand at Harry’s waist as he flips them, then slowly, teasingly, pulls Harry’s pants down his legs. He settles down against Harry so that their dicks are so close to touching Harry could scream, and then he shifts up for a kiss as he gets his hand ‘round the both of them. Harry groans into his mouth.

Louis breaks the kiss after a moment to press another to the shell of his ear as he starts to wank them. “Be still for me, love,” he whispers, and the reverberation of his words tickles all the way to Harry’s stomach, make his toes curl. He can’t help but squirm. Louis doesn’t move, just laughs quietly into Harry’s ear, and that doesn’t help at all.

“Oh god,” Harry pants, trying not to buck his hips. Their chests are slick with sweat now, but he doesn’t mind. The sounds of skin on skin are only making it harder for him to hold off, and when Louis moves to suck a love bite beneath the one he’d given Harry the night before, Harry can’t help it: he shudders and comes, closing his eyes as he moans Louis’ name.

Louis buries his face in Harry’s neck, and then he follows him over. “Jesus,” he mumbles. Harry thoroughly agrees.

It’s only in the wake of the afterglow, as Louis unsticks himself from Harry’s chest and flops down beside him, that Harry realises how far from restful sleeping in the tub really had been. His eyes are heavy, and he thinks he couldn’t stay awake for all the money in the world right now, but… “So d’you wanna, like, be my boyfriend, then?” he asks, stumbling over the words a bit. It sounds juvenile, and Harry feels those two years between them more than ever, hopes Louis won’t suddenly see him as the kid trailing after him asking about _boyfriends_ after one roll in the hay and change his mind.

But Louis just grins, looking up as he shakes his head in contemplation. “Hm, I dunno. Can we hire a cleaning service?”

“No,” says Harry firmly. He won’t trade his flat for a boyfriend, as nice as that might be.

“Ah, well, can’t win ‘em all,” says Louis, rolling over to throw an arm across Harry’s stomach. His dick presses firm against Harry’s hip, and Harry’s never been happier to feel a soft cock in his life. “You’re quite a consolation prize, I’d say.”

Harry smiles, eyes drifting closed. He reaches for Louis’ hand, tangling their fingers. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he mumbles, and then he’s asleep, warm and content with Louis by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not even remotely British, but I've done my best. Written for the following anon prompt:
> 
> _uhmmm something about all those bruises they miraculously seem to acquire all the time? Marking porn? Yeah._
> 
> If you have any prompts you'd like filled, please send us an ask at our blog [popsongdelusional](http://popsongdelusional.tumblr.com/)!


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